


the more I give to thee, the more I have

by VesperNexus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: Aziraphale is determined to drown his touch-starved demon with gratuitous affection and adoration for the next forever.Or, four times Aziraphale made Crowley feel like he was deserving, and one time he didn’t have to.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 137





	the more I give to thee, the more I have

**Author's Note:**

> so i recently binged good omens with my mate and oh my sweet baby jesus. it's almost midnight and this was born. set post armagedidn't.
> 
> also i know it's usually 5 +1 but bear with me here

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,  
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,  
The more I have, for both are infinite.

 _Romeo and Juliet,_ Act II, Scene II

1.

There is something terribly sublime about the sharp jutting angles of Crowley’s body beneath his own, the way those pianist fingers flit seamlessly around the curve of Aziraphale’s neck to his shoulders. His touch is cool and tantalizingly scorching all at once, the bite of his fingernails delicate as he draws Aziraphale in for a kiss.

The angel melts, swiping his tongue across the row of Crowley’s sharpened teeth, drawing from his throat a sound that is sin manifest. He balances himself on elbows at either side of Crowley’s head and kisses the breath from his lungs as thin hands shifting lazily along the lines of his back.

They separate to contented sighs, Aziraphale sinking into the silky black sheets and drawing Crowley to him by the waist. The demon blinks sluggishly, the yellow of his eyes vivid and bright between his eyelashes.

“Mmm, tha’ was nice,” he mumbles, slipping the flat palm of his hand over Aziraphale’s chest.

“Ever so eloquent, my dear.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, “I think you might’ve knackered all the eloquence out of me, angel.” Aziraphale can’t help the heat that burns his cheeks.

“Yes well, you’re impossible to resist.” Crowley snorts, letting his eyes flutter shut. Aziraphale pulls him a little closer until only a few inches of bed separate them, the demon malleable and content under his hands. The messy play of hair and kiss bruised lips paint his face in an open, tender expression and Aziraphale’s heart beats hard and fast under his demon’s hand. He might burst with the gentle sentiment the seems to liquify his insides. Aziraphale’s hand slides up the staircase of Crowley’s ribs, thumbing the dip of his belly as he goes, past the jut of his clavicles to rest on his cheekbone.

Crowley mutters something unintelligible into the pillow and Aziraphale spends the next five or ten or sixty minutes enjoying the sight of him, committing to memory every sharp line and incline and slope. He’s particularly fond of Crowley like this, sated and unhidden and only for him to see. To protect. _Precious._

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Crowley hasn’t opened his eyes. Aziraphale drags his fingers along the soft skin of his face.

“Okay.”

Crowley’s eyes flash open, narrow and dangerous, brows urgently curved into a frown as he tries to gage the seriousness of Aziraphale’s response. Aziraphale just smiles stupidly at him, open and harmless and deliberately infuriating.

“You had better not be serious Angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile is almost manically intense, pushing little crows feet around his eyes. He holds it a moment longer to Crowley’s incomparable devastation before laughter bursts deep and hearty from his belly.

Crowley groans and buries his face in Aziraphale’s chest, head slotting neatly under the angel’s chin. Aziraphale threads his fingers through his soft hair,

“You ought not to be so surprised, my dear. You are simply the most extraordinary creature I have ever seen.”

Quick as anything the mood splits and fractures and comes together again entirely different. There’s a waft of diffidence from the lean body curled into him, unease almost, and it slips between the bones of Aziraphale’s ribcage and squeezes his heart. Crowley says nothing, so he continues.

“Just _remarkable,_ inimitable if you will. Allowing me this is a privilege.”

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He feels a nervous smile split against his skin, swallowing a sigh before it rolls off his tongue. Aziraphale is a creature of unbridled sentiment and expression, and over the last year since the _apocalypse-that-wasn’t_ he redirected his personal philosophy to his demon. Aziraphale has been – slowly, not always successfully, and always in increments – coaxing Crowley into accepting his praises and his high flattery. More difficult is coaxing him into _believing_ just how treasured he was, how _loved,_ without accidently inciting vitriol powered by an acute sense of self-loathing. Yes, that.

Aziraphale doesn’t quite have the patience or subtly to demonstrate his overwhelming all-encompassing affection like Crowley does. Crowley who saved his books and galvanized _Hamlet_ and hand-delivered Parisian crepes to his dusty Soho bookshop long before they shared a kiss or a bed. But he likes to think he’s gotten pretty far. Crowley hasn’t shoved him into anymore walls, and he’s starting to settle for grumbling and muttering as opposed to outright deflection.

It’s difficult and more often than not, egregiously frustrating. Aziraphale is bad at _not-being-good_ at things – except the whole angel thing of course, but concessions out to be made there he thinks – and he finds himself more determined to show Crowley how he is just the most esteemed and cherished and fancied being in existence to Aziraphale and-

Aziraphale kisses the crown of his head and feels Crowley’s tension thaw, his long limbs practically liquifying around the angel.

Progress.

2.

It’s about as sunny as it’s bound to get mid-June in London.

The sun splits the sky, happy golden rays fracturing on the bed of dry grass in a kaleidoscope.

Regent Park stretches long and wide before them, not quite as occupied as St James or Hyde, even though Aziraphale is simply dying to tour Crowley through the _Victoria and Albert_ museum. Another day, then.

And there would be another day. He sneaks a glance at his companion, looking all cool and mysterious and _complimentable_ in his skinny jeans and jacket. Crowley’s got a hand loose by his side and the other curled around their empty picnic basket, having long since devoured a terrible amount of fresh Oysters and wine.

“That was lovely my dear,” he says unnecessarily, because he can, “thank you.”

“Whatever for Angel?”

 _For being the most exquisite companion an angel might ask for,_ he doesn’t say. He is weary of accidently instigating any tension or discomfort in his companion with kind words, especially after the alcohol had done such a good job to bring the smile easier about his face.

Instead he adjusts the picnic blanket under his arm, blinks around the couples and families and joggers peppered about the park, and slips his free hand into Crowley’s.

The demon startles so badly the basket nearly comes tumbling to the ground. Aziraphale looks decidedly ahead.

Long fingers twist in his own for a moment or two, and there’s an awkward slide of warm palms. Crowley’s grip tightens before it loosened, as if he’s evaluating the most efficient way to hold his angel’s hand, and then tightens again with a sure spike of nervousness, and then finally loosens.

Their hands stay woven together seamlessly as they stroll down the well-trodden path. From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale sees Crowley’s painfully disbelieving gaze at their impromptu handholding. He’s looking down as if he doesn’t quite know _why_ Aziraphale wants to hold his hand _in public._

There’s a skewer of grief in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. And there’s something to be said for the way insecurity aggregates over epochs, the way it builds like moss on a stone rolls and bounces down a mountain, the way it has been fostered in Crowley’s chest and eats away at any semblance of self-love Aziraphale has been trying to implant in him.

“Don’t look so startled my dear,” Crowley doesn’t respond, “I observed many human couples holding hands as a means of displaying a romantic or soulful relationship.”

“Mmm,” if it comes out a little choked, Aziraphale doesn’t comment.

Things can only go up from here, right?

3.

Aziraphale senses him before he magicks himself right in the middle of the bookshop, and it only takes a moment for overwhelming trepidation to expand in his chest like a helium balloon. _Oh heavens, not now._

“Gabriel.”

He tries to smile from behind the counter, but his lips rebel and he settles for a pained grimace instead. Too late.

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel is immaculately dressed as usual, his thick coat and perfect hair and that awful _is-that-actually-a-smile_ smile _._ “I came to check – _oh my._ ”

Aziraphale would hang his head in defeat if he were a lesser angel, because it suddenly feels too heavy for his shoulders.

“What is that awful smell?” Gabriel lifts his nose and sniffs obnoxiously, “Oh _right.”_ His smirk is demeaning and terrible and Aziraphale strikes down the very unangelic desire to smack him with _The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde,_ thick old paper and leather bound, weighing an unhyperbolic ton. “Where’s your little pet then?”

Aziraphale thumbs the pages, considers pulling a thicker tome off of the shelf instead, localising the damage – it may not hurt but it would be blessedly satisfying.

Before he can conjure a suitable reply with the lowest likelihood of triggering a smiting, Crowley saunters down the stairs, the dangerous slip of his body clad in his sinfully tight leather pants. _Only leather pants._ And his glasses, of course.

“ _Really_ my dear?”

Crowley comes to a stop beside him, leaning against the counter like his spine is made of jelly, elbow carefully resting on _Oscar Wilde_ as if he’s read Aziraphale’s mind. He wields his body like a tool, a superficial temptation that is beautiful and inviting and so profoundly indecent and belonging to Aziraphale _alone._

He doesn’t miss Gabriel’s appreciative glance, eyes mapping Crowley’s pale skin and all the lovely jutting edges it covers, from the narrow shoulders to his slip of a waist, right down to where the pants hang low on his narrow hips. A tantalising sight Aziraphale knows too well, but for _Gabriel_ to show interest – it’s…

Unnerving, to say the least.

Crowley must feel the same, if the sudden tension bunching the muscles of his back is anything to go by. His intent must have been to disarm the archangel, but the way Gabriel’s eyes devour his bare chest tells Aziraphale he’s anything but disarmed.

“Charming.” Gabriel mutters dryly, and Aziraphale wrestles with the urge to miracle Crowley a bloody shirt or stand in front of him with feet apart to defend his honour. He itches for his flaming sword. “I suppose there is a use for you after all, Snake.”

Crowley just smiles sardonically, the flash of fangs intentional. Gabriel’s face distorts, cheeks bunching up in exaggerated disgust.

“What do you want then?”

Gabriel pulls his eyes from Crowley, “I’d like to speak to your master, Snake, give us a moment alone.”

Crowley’s smile doesn’t shift.

“I’m not his _master_ Gabriel.” Aziraphale’s voice is short of threatening, but it’s cold and protruding all the way. “I don’t tell him what to do.”

“I don’t know, Aziraphale, he looks pretty domesticated to me.”

“He does his best,” Crowley responds on his behalf, and the little daring grin he shoots might suspend time the same way it suspends the jittery beat of Aziraphale’s heart. Right. They’ve come a long way, and the angel smiles back warmly, and he isn’t imagining the way those sharp cheekbones tinge a little pink. They’ve come a long way from begging heaven and hell for scraps, and honestly, Aziraphale thinks for a single wild furious moment, Gabriel can go _fuck himself._

“So?” His voice is unaffected and he’s proud of himself. This frightening courage he extracts from his indecently dressed impishly grinning demon, and it’s blindingly thrilling.

“So?”

“So what do you want?” Aziraphale punctuates the words with little pauses like he’s speaking to a child, and it’s worth the sudden stiffening of Gabriel’s shoulders. The Angel _fucking_ Gabriel my backside, Aziraphale thinks.

“You might do well to remember who you’re speaking to, Aziraphale.”

He doesn’t quite roll his eyes. Instead, Aziraphale slips around his demon to stand before the archangel, raising one perfectly plucked eyebrow and tilting his head. _Perhaps you ought to have thought of that before insulting Crowley._

“So what do you want, _archangel Gabriel?_ ”

Gabriel seems to understand this is as far as he’s getting. “Routine check. Needed to make sure you’ve not been screwing up any more divine plans or ruining any more lives, is all.” He glances around at the dusty corners and old books with a frown. It settles something ugly on his face, something dangerous. Something Aziraphale can’t quite interpret. “I’m going to leave now.”

He tips his head and vanishes, and the disbelief in the shop is so palpable Aziraphale could choke if he inhales too deeply. He doesn’t, but he does double over with a crushing burst of laughter that grips him hard. Moisture collects around his eyes.

“Oh my Crowley, that was terribly stupid of us, wasn’t it?” But he’s still smiling stupidly. The distance they’ve come, together, from hiding, and consorting, and pretending, and _fearing_ is so far and so unbearably sweet.

“Thanks,” it’s quiet. He turns to see the demon watching him intently. “For… you know.”

Aziraphale knots their fingers together, “Of course my dear.”

4.

Aziraphale can’t breathe.

It’s a rather peculiar feeling, a devastation that trounces about in his chest, pulling lightning quick punches and leaving a wrecking of shattered bones and bruised organs inside him.

When Crowley dissipates, his fingers and toes blink in and out of existence, and he blurs and shakes like static, his expression open and vulnerable and devastated and that awful debilitating helplessness that blankets him is nothing less than suffocating. Aziraphale clutches desperately at his demon’s hands and _–_

“I’ll find you my dear! I’ll _find you_!”

For the next three weeks, Aziraphale is left only with the breathless whisper _Angel_ bouncing in his head, the delicate resignation in Crowley’s plea infiltrating his focus, as if of course it wouldn’t last, of course of course _ofcourse._

As soon as Crowley disappears, Aziraphale becomes capable of nothing less than shredding the fabric of time and space itself to return him home. This indelible fragile thing they have nurtured between them, this startling tentative thing that they sheltered for no fewer than six thousand years, it’s worth everything. It’s worth falling for.

_It’s worth falling for._

Aziraphale nearly does, too.

When he finds Crowley, _finally-finally-finally,_ in the basement of a little church doused in the same unpleasantly clean perfume that graced his shop only months ago, he very nearly goes _up_ to end Gabriel himself.

Crowley is strung up against the wall, the distinct smell of burning flesh a tell-tale of blessed chains. They’re slipped around his wrists to the ceiling, and around his _wings._

“Oh Sweetheart.” Aziraphale breaks the circle with a vicious flourish of his hands, undoes the chains and tenderly catches the body that tumbles down. Crowley flinches, cold and helpless in his arms, and Aziraphale swallows back the bile crawling up the back of his throat.

Crowley’s glorious black wings flutter anxiously, beating feebly against nothing. Aziraphale can’t stare at them for long without the sourness coating his tongue again. They’re a chaos of hundreds of tiny shattered bones protruding from flesh and the sticky blood matting what fathers haven’t been yanked off or burned away. Crowley’s shivering, his wings struggling to curl protectively around his battered body.

“You came,” Crowley whispers into his neck, and Aziraphale shakes so tremendously he fears he may discorporate.

\+ 1

Healing is slow and hasty and terrible and _reassuring_.

They’re tangled on the little couch in the shop together, Crowley laying haphazardly atop his angel. Aziraphale’s heart is beating steadily and Crowley uses it as a melody to temper his anxiety, to lower it to a quiet simmer until its blurred by the eager throes of sleep.

He knows, quite logically, that Gabriel fucked up massively, and he’s being reprimanded, and Crowley is safe and his wings –

His wings are healing, in the other plane, they are trembling through a slow and uncomfortable restoration because wounds inflicted by sharp blessed things on the demon variety are _fucking_ painful and can’t just be magicked away. The lack of permanent damage is a paradoxical and treacherous benediction and Crowley is delighted by his near sanity and quite likes being nearly sane, so he won’t question it. The healing bit still suck though, and there’s not much to do for it. Well, except the cuddling. And the coddling.

Aziraphale’s constant surveillance is as irritating as it is heart-warming. In all his millennia, Crowley has never eaten so many pastries with French names like _Tarte Tatin_ – he quite enjoys the rolling alliteration of that one, _tarte tatin, tarte tatin,_ he’s said it so many times now he knows Aziraphale has half a mind to stab him, with something not blessed, of course – and drank so much herbal tea. Matcha, he decides, he likes best. Aziraphale prefers Sencha, a little lighter, definitely sweeter.

His angel still looks at him like he might disappear any moment, and well, he supposes that’s maybe sort of true, but it’s nothing they can’t handle and it’s nothing they _haven’t handled._ Nothing irreparable.

Crowley’s pillow begins snoring, softly. He lets his head loll against that warm shoulder and gazes unashamedly at Aziraphale’s face. He’s never slept like this, without his own volition, succumbing too an all too human exhaustion. But then again, Crowley knows Aziraphale has not rested a second in the time he was summoned to _now._ His beautiful clever impossible angel.

Crowley blinks a few times, lets his body go all soft and relaxed, and lets sleep take him too.


End file.
